


Dances With Wolves

by katyb64



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom John, Human!John, Jealous!Sherlock, M/M, Marking, Mating Cycles/In Heat, PWP, Pining!Sherlock, Shameless Smut, Were!Sherlock, Werelock, like half a plot, ugh you know what let's be honest, vague plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:34:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1617827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katyb64/pseuds/katyb64
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The itch was the worst part, that constant distracting itch just under his skin that never completely went away. It urged him to take, to claim, to show John exactly what was meant to happen, what they were destined for."</p><p>Sherlock's emotional attachment to John drives him into his heat, however for the sake of their friendship he tries to ignore it. A werewolf in love can only wait so long, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dances With Wolves

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Man and Beast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/496440) by [Jupiter_Ash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiter_Ash/pseuds/Jupiter_Ash). 



The itch was the worst part, that constant distracting itch just under his skin that never completely went away. It urged him to take, to claim, to show John exactly what was meant to happen, what they were destined for. When he was transformed it made his hackles rise and his senses sharpen, focusing so intensely on the one person they all craved. When he walked on two legs, it made him twitch, made his pupils dilate and his skin crawl. Cheeks flushed, heart pounding, mouth dry. Still focused, but no longer consciously.

He was in heat, painfully apparent heat, and Sherlock didn't know if there was anything to be done for it.

He'd never been in heat before, because for werewolves it wasn't a cycle, a mating season where all of their kind spent months rabidly fucking to produce ludicrous amounts of offspring. No, it was emotionally based, and Sherlock had spent a large majority of his life trying to convince himself and others that he didn't have those. However, and he did so hate to admit it, he'd been wrong. He had them, oh he did, and they were awful, terrible things. Once you opened the lid on a few they all come leaking out, polluting your mind with their incessant disruption to logical reasoning. He loved logical reasoning, and John Watson had interfered with that. Logically, he should be angry at John Watson, should despise him. Emotionally, he loved the man more than he thought he had the capacity to. It was ridiculous.

It was that love that had driven him into his heat, that made him burn up from the inside out with _want_ for John. God, how he wanted John. Wanted him in the bed, on the couch, over the table, on the floor, against the wall, inside-out and upside-down he wanted him. Everywhere. Anywhere.

He could have him, too, if he asked. Sherlock was sure of it, in the way John looked at him, licked his lips while they were talking. Orally fixated, Sherlock thought. He was always licking his lips, but he lingered, did it more often if Sherlock was around.

John doesn't know about heats, about the craving Sherlock feels in every drop of his too-hot blood. He doesn't know that Sherlock dreams about touching him, having him, _owning_ him. He doesn't know that Sherlock is terrified, absolutely petrified of having him, because what if that's it? What if Sherlock gets him once and then he's gone forever?

Sherlock is familiar with the fragility of relationships, he's destroyed more than a few with a quick comment to one of the parties about the other. It's easy. Frighteningly easy. Sherlock imagines that if it's so easy to ruin a relationship between two other people, it must be doubly so to ruin one of his own. That can't happen with John. Alone was what he had, but now that's gone and what he has is John. He loves having John, John who makes him tea and checks his temperature when he's sick and stitches him up when he's been hurt because he knows he hates hospitals. John who makes him laugh and does so with him and not at him and solves crimes with him and is interested in his experiments and is his _friend_. John who is more precious to him than any puzzle ever was. This is the John he cannot lose.

So he resists.

He fights.

He drives himself slowly insane.

For John.

* * *

 

One day, Sherlock simply cannot take it anymore, the itch is too much and he feels like he's on fire. He's had days like that before, and he leaves, sometimes not coming back until he's sure John will be asleep for the night. He can't leave tonight, though, not when John is planning on going out and probably trying to seduce some person who isn't Sherlock, who doesn't crave him, who doesn't _deserve_ him. Sherlock doesn't deserve him either, but he'll be damned if that's going to stop him. He has to watch, has to make sure this girl won't steal away his John.

John can sense it, of course, the deterioration of Sherlock's sanity as weeks and months pass without his craving being fulfilled. He doesn't know the cause, doesn't know much at all about werewolves, but he knows that Sherlock's been so snappish and rude that he has to get out of the flat. Not even solving cases has perked him up, and John is always there to support him but sometimes he just needs a break. He's sick of having insults and actual objects hurled at him. So, he invited Hanna, a nice girl from his work, out for a quick meal. It didn't hurt that she was absolutely stunning, all long legs and black, swishy hair. She was going to come over to the flat and then they would go, since she said she lived close-by. He looks over at Sherlock, hunched over in the kitchen and doing something with skin that John would rather not know about. Even in a snit he's gorgeous, pouty-lips and flashing eyes. As always, John is enraptured, staring and staring at the man. So beautiful, ethereal, too good to be true, even at his worst.

He's pulled out of his trance when there's a knock on the door. Mrs. Hudson must have let her up. John was so busy staring at Sherlock he hadn't noticed.

John opens the door, kisses Hanna on the cheek and invites her in. She's early, they don't have to leave quite yet. “Sherlock,” He comments, unsure why he feels the need to do so. “Say hello, would you?” Sherlock looks up at the girl, and the faint shine on her cheek where John kissed her, at John's hand at her back, and _growls_. John's eyes go wide. “Christ, never mind, then...” He mutters, sending Sherlock a 'what-the-hell-was-that' look and getting only a cold stare in response. Hanna looks worried, rightly so, and John ushers her to the couch, sitting next to her and planning on a chat.

 _No._ Sherlock thinks, still staring angrily at the pair, one short and blond and _right_ and the other long-legged, dark, and so out of place Sherlock wants to scream. _My home my room my couch my John._ He tries, really, to return to his experiment, but his hands are shaking and he can't do it anymore, can't resist anymore.

“Out.” He says sharply, standing up and walking over to what's-her-name. “Get out.”

John gapes at him, aghast. “Sherlock, what the fuck is wrong with you? I'm sorry, Hanna, he's not usually so-”

“No.” Sherlock interrupts, not having it. “She has to leave. Now.”

“Fine, let's go. Unbelievable...”

“No!” He says again, angry that John's not understanding. “You stay. I want her gone and you here.”

John just blinks at him, sure the detective has completely lost his head. “I'm not letting you bully me out of this date.”

“I'm sick.” Sherlock says suddenly, deciding he needs an excuse. “I've been in a bad way lately. I'm sick, quite sick, and I _need_ you. I need you.” He looks openly at John, let's him see how true that is. Sherlock doesn't care anymore, not enough to hide. His resolve has crumbled completely.

Hanna looks over at John when he hesitates, rolling her eyes. “Bye, John.” She turns away with a swish of her skirt. Self-respect, Sherlock admires that, but right now he doesn't even notice. John follows, not stopping her, just apologizing because he's definitely not leaving if Sherlock needs him. He tries to ask about a next-time, but the way she slams the door is a very clear answer. He sighs and looks up at his friend. “So, what's wrong with- mmf!”

Lips.

Warm lips pressed hard to John's own and a sharp, angled body leaning down to ease the connection. A tongue too, hot and wet pushing forward into John's mouth, claiming and decisive, _mine mine mine_.

There's no hesitation, John is pressing back for all he's worth, wanting too.

“Wait-” John pulls back and tries to talk, to put some forethought into what they're doing, but the expression on Sherlock's face, such _want_ and _need_... John can't even remember what he was going to say, shaking his head and moaning when Sherlock takes his mouth again.

Oh, now he remembers.

“Sherlock, wait, wait.” He gasps, pushing lightly at Sherlock's chest. The man doesn't back off, which is good because John didn't want him to, but he does leave John's mouth free. Instead he noses into the crook of John's neck, inhaling deeply and rumbling with content.

Sherlock has him, finally, finally. All his, just for him. John.

“Why now? I don't understand, Sherlock, you were driving me mad for months, and I thought you were growing sick of me to be honest, and... What's brought this on? Can't be because of Hanna, I've gone on dates before.”

Sherlock shakes his head, still buried in John's neck. “I couldn't. I couldn't anymore, I tried so _hard_ , John, but it burned to see her with you. It always burns but it was too much.”

“Hey, slow down.” John urges, gasping lightly at the feeling of a hard kiss being pressed to his neck. “You're all worked up. Settle. Couldn't what?”

So kind, Sherlock thinks. His John, so caring, so perfect.

“Resist.” He hisses, licking at John's neck and tasting the salt and freshness of his skin. “I can't resist you anymore, it's too _much_.” Sherlock says, pressing his hips forward because he's so very, painfully hard and he needs John to know, to feel the want that's inside of him. “Please, John. My John, let me have you. Please.”

John thinks that's the most he's ever heard the detective use that word, and with such conviction it hurts a little, to think Sherlock's been fighting this, hurting himself, when he could have had him all along. He nods. Yes.

Sherlock moans, grabs at John's cock through his jeans, not bothering with pretences. This is what he wants, what he's wanted and craved. He feels John hardening under his touch, hears his breathing hitch and his pulse speed up, god he can hear the blood rushing through his veins, downward to his erection and getting hard for Sherlock, so Sherlock can have him.

“Sherlock...” John hums his name reverently, like he's a gift to be had, and Sherlock growls possessively, pressing him harder to the wall with his hips and his hands, invading that mouth once again. This time John wants more, rocking up into Sherlock's hand and tangling the fingers of one of his hands in dark curls to pull him harder against his mouth. He wants to feel Sherlock everywhere, in every pore, every breath he takes.

“ _Mine._ ” Sherlock snarls against John's lips, and John can only keen in response, shoving Sherlock's hand out of the way so he can rock their clothed erections together. Sherlock groans loudly, lowering his lips to John's neck and sucking a dark bruise onto the side, marking him so nobody else would ever even try to touch him. John is his, was always his, body and soul. He sucks another bruise, another and another dotting his skin. Sherlock thinks it's absolutely beautiful, a claiming work of art. John doesn't mind, just thrusts harder against Sherlock and bares his neck. He's perfect.

John's heard about this, about the possessiveness of werewolves, the desire to claim their mate. Is that what John is now? He surprises himself by hoping so. John was always the one to do the claiming, to take somebody and make them feel like they were his, to let his lovers know how much he wanted them. He wants to be Sherlock's, never been or wanted to be somebody else's before but wants it desperately with his mad, ridiculous, incredible best friend. He loves him. “Yours.” He agrees, and the sound Sherlock makes is more animal than man, feral and deep and wild. It's the sexiest thing John's ever heard.

Sherlock grabs his wrist tightly, certain John can take it, and pulls him to his bedroom, hating every second they're not touching. There's lube in the bedroom, and Sherlock will be needing that. Hopefully soon.

“Undress.” Sherlock says once they're in the room with the door shut, not forceful enough to make John unhappy but wanting, pleading without asking. John listens, his beautiful John, even more so without clothing hiding him. Sherlock suddenly thinks clothes are the worst things ever to be made by man, if they're hiding such riches. Soft but muscular, not as much as he would have been in his fighting days but kept toned from the days he's having now, the ones with Sherlock. His best days, Sherlock can tell. He's short but compact, somehow his presence is larger than it should be. Beautiful, impossible. It's odd to think, but Sherlock thinks his cock is perfect too, thick and sizable but nothing unwieldy, never too much, his John. He likes it most because it's straining for him, hard and ready for Sherlock. Golden curls surround it, leading up to John's softly furred abdomen.

Sherlock himself is nearly hairless in this form, all the hair coming out when he's changed. He never shaves, it simply doesn't grow. He's different from John, tall and slight, pale and untouchable. John is warm and inviting, and Sherlock accepts eagerly, running his hands over John's chest delightedly. His John, all for him. The scar on his shoulder... Sherlock loves it and hates it. Loves it because it brought him this, John and home and life. Loves it because it shows the power his John has, how strong he is. Hates it because it wounded John in more ways than just scarring him. Sherlock thinks John should never feel pain, should be happy and safe always. Though, a safe John isn't a happy John. John craves danger. John craves _him._

“You too.” John pants, undoing the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, hands shaking and fumbling but finally getting the job done. That's as far as he gets before Sherlock's sick of waiting and he nudges John forward until he's on the bed, lying back and gazing at Sherlock with dark eyes. Sherlock straddles him and licks at the scar, in reverence and in healing, licking lower and lower until he has a different mission, sucking one of John's nipples into his mouth. John gasps, twining the fingers of one of his hands into Sherlock's curls. “Please.” He mumbles, closing his eyes.

John has to know, he has to know that Sherlock needs him, loves him even if Sherlock doesn't know how to express such a thing. He tries to prove it to John with pleasure, teasing him with teeth and tongue until he's writhing under him, and then the only reprieve he gets is Sherlock moving to the other nipple. Sherlock can't let there be any doubt, none, of how deeply cares, how insane John makes him in the best possible way. He licks over John's chest and down to his stomach, dipping into his navel before laving over his hips and thighs. He writes his devotion over John's skin with the laps of his tongue, running the flat of it up the shaft of his cock and relishing the breathy moan it causes. “Mine.” He sighs happily, kissing the very tip of John's erection. Nobody else can have this now. He plans on making John come so hard he'd never dream of giving it to anybody else. He reaches up to reclaim John's mouth, softer but no less possessive. “Can I have you?” He murmurs, kissing over each bruise he'd left. “Will you let me take you, my John? Deep inside, that's how I want you, I want you to feel me inside you. Would you like that?”

John doesn't answer with words, just arches up his hips and nods, eyes clenched shut. He starts pawing at Sherlock's trousers, wanting them off. Sherlock complies, shimmying out of them and his pants and then pressing skin against skin, as it should be. Sherlock is going to pass a law that says neither of them is ever allowed to wear clothes again. John scrabbles at Sherlock's back as he ruts up against him, moaning desperately at the warmth and friction. “Sherlock. Please.” He opens his eyes and kisses him again, chaste but fierce. “I want you. I want to be yours.” He blushes at the vocalization of it, thinking it wouldn't be distinguishable from the flush already on his cheeks but should have known better. Sherlock sees, always does.

“You already are.” Sherlock's voice has gone husky with desire, making his words vibrate like a purr. “You always were, the second I saw you. Mine. I knew it, I knew you were mine from the _smell_ of you.” He runs his tongue up John's neck and grinds his hips down, their erections slotting together perfectly, rightly. So right, him and his John together. “That's why we're here, like this, right now. Because you're meant to be mine. Not hers. Were you going to fuck her, John?” He asks suddenly, an edge to his voice. He doesn't like that John was going to do that.

“I... I don't know.” John looks away, can't meet his eyes.

“You were.” Sherlock answers for him. “I had to stop you, stop _her_ from touching my John. She would have touched you and it would have been wrong.” He sinks his teeth into John's unmarked shoulder, leaving the imprint of his bite. John groans and shudders, breath coming in gasps. “Never. Again. Never touch anybody else. Promise you won't. Say you're mine.”

“I promise.” John whispers, guilty though Sherlock thinks in the residual rational bits of his brain that he shouldn't be guilty. He didn't know he was Sherlock's. The other parts of his brain are happy. Never again will he look for this with the wrong person. He'll be Sherlock's. “I'm yours. I'm all yours, every bit of me. Please, Sherlock, I want you.”

Sherlock nearly whimpers, kissing John deeply and messily as he fumbles around in his bedside table drawer for lubricant. The bottle was nearing empty, becoming more and more so as the months of his heat wore on. “Turn.” He instructs, wanting to see the back of his John, too. When he takes him, finally has him, he wants to see his face, but for now the back is just as good. He licks over John's spine, loving the shiver and gasp it causes. “Beautiful.” He praises, kissing his tailbone and then each of his cheeks, and John tenses. He hasn't done this before, Sherlock knows, but he'll relax soon because his John is perfect. “Shh...” He soothes, slicking up one of his fingers as he talks. “It's okay, John. Relax for me. Let me have you.” He runs his dry hand over John's hip until the tension eases out of his body. “Yes... Perfect. You're perfect, John, just for me.” John is quiet, neck straining to see him. He slides his finger between his cheeks and circles his entrance, pleased when John doesn't tense up again but gasps loudly. “I'll be careful, so careful with you. My perfect, precious John. I would never hurt you.” John keens his name and Sherlock smiles, reaching up to kiss his lips. “Hush. I'll take care of you.” John nods. He knows.

Sherlock circles and loosens the muscle until he's sure it won't hurt when he presses the tip of his finger in. He wanted to taste first, know what John was like inside, but he didn't want John to be uncomfortable. John was new, wary. There would be time for that later. He was still in his heat, he needed to have John over and over again. He was going to.

“More.” John says softly, making Sherlock rumble with pleasure. John should want more of him, should always. Mate. His mate. The most perfect mate in existence. He pistons his index finger in and out of John's tight hole, so tight and warm and begging to be filled by him. John's left whimpering, rocking back slightly against Sherlock's hand. It must be torture, Sherlock thinks, for John to be so empty and incomplete. He knows that's how he feels.

“Soon, John.” Sherlock promises, kissing over his back. He likes John's back, warm and firm. He thinks it's good for holding on to. He works in another finger, not stopping until it's fit all the way in, opening John up. John's gone quiet, only gasps, and when Sherlock looks up their eyes meet. John looks... amazed.

“You...” John breathes, shaking his head slightly. “Inside, I can feel you.”

Sherlock growls, thrusting his fingers in and out faster, scissoring and massaging John open. “Not yet.” He snarls, biting the globe of one of John's cheeks to leave teeth marks. “But soon. This is just a warm up.” John moans in appreciation, letting it rise into a yell when Sherlock presses up and finds that special bundle of nerves inside of him. Sherlock has to hush him again, smiling as he nuzzles his head soothingly against his back.

“Sherlock, please. I can't, it's too... Now. Please now.”

Never has a word been any more beautiful.

Sherlock wants to listen, to just take him and fuck him senseless, but it can't hurt, he doesn't want John to hurt, so he stretches him for a bit longer until he's sure it will be nothing but good. “ _Now_ .” Sherlock tells him, tugging him until he's on his back again. He kisses him deeply as he slicks himself up, then rubbing against John's arse until he's pushing back against him, whining into Sherlock's mouth. “Beautiful.” Sherlock mumbles, kissing John softly once more before pressing his face into his neck, inhaling deeply. John smells so amazing, sweaty and hot and like home. Sherlock guides himself carefully to John's entrance, not bothering with even the idea of a condom. John is _his his his_ and anything separating them would be wrong. Slowly and carefully, Sherlock pushes in, moaning the loudest yet.

“John.” He sighs, feeling the heat of him all over. John clings to him, wrapping his legs around his hips and gripping his back. Sherlock pushes and slides until he's buried completely, squeezing his eyes shut to focus on the feeling of his John. So tight and hot and perfect. So right.

“Kiss me.” John whispers and Sherlock does, soft and sweet.

“Is it okay? Does it hurt?” Sherlock asks him, stroking gently at his hair. This is another part about having a mate Sherlock had not expected. The idea of John being in any sort of distress terrifies and enrages him.

John shakes head no, breathing fast and shallow. “Good, it's... It's so _good._ ” John sounds shocked, like he'd had no idea anything could feel that way. Sherlock didn't know either, but it's amazing, perfect. Scratching the itch. “Move.” John urges, rocking his hips gently and letting out a moan.

“Perfection.” Sherlock whispers as he starts to ease gently out before pushing back in, licking John's neck. “Now you'll be mine, for the rest of your life you'll belong to me.” He rocks in faster, prompting a whine from John.

“Yes. Oh, God, Sherlock yes _please_.” John begs, gripping tighter to Sherlock. “I want to be. I've wanted to be.”

“Going to fill you up.” Sherlock continues, speaking with his lips pressed to the shell of John's ear. He grins when John shivers at his words. “Not just now, no, but over and over, again and again and again until you're full of me, until you can't stand not to be.” He nips at John's ear, groaning when John squeezes around him. “Nnh, John, you're brilliant. The most radiant man I've ever met, you drive me insane.” He thrusts faster still into John, making sure he finds an angle that makes John wild. “Tell me how good it feels, I want to hear you. I want to know you wanted this.”

John nods desperately, trembling with pleasure. “Wanted you. It's so good, Sherlock, I, mh, needed you and I have you and it's so much, so full and you're- _ah_ \- so perfect and, and- oh, oh please, please make me come. Please Sherlock.” He rocks harder against Sherlock, straining and pressing his erection, swollen and ignored, up against Sherlock's stomach.

Sherlock, feeling his climax build in the pit of his stomach, reaches between them to stroke John in time with his thrusts. He brings John right to his orgasm, hearing him cry out Sherlock's name, desperate, keening and _perfect_. Warm ejaculate spurts against both of their stomachs and John tenses, squeezing tight around Sherlock in his pleasure before going limp against the mattress, Sherlock still thrusting rapidly into him, trying to reach that peak.

Suddenly he's there, sharp and crackling like electricity through his veins as he comes, sinking his teeth into John's good shoulder to stifle his cries. He bites down so hard he can taste blood and John jerks slightly, but otherwise stays still and lets Sherlock fill him, feels him press himself in deeper because he just wants to be inside his John so much.

Sherlock collapses down on top of John, shivering and hiding his face against John's neck. It stays quiet for a few long minutes, Sherlock shaking for all of it. He's terrified he was right, that he'd had John and he'd screwed it up and that was that. He'd been rough, was it too much? Oh, his shoulder, his good shoulder. He'd bitten it so hard. Was John mad? Was that why he was so quiet? Sherlock was too afraid to lift his head to check.

Suddenly there's gentle fingers stroking through his hair and a warm hand on his back, soothing him. “Sh...” John whispers, pressing a soft kiss to the side of Sherlock's head. “Relax, darling. Just breathe, you're okay.”

Sherlock whimpers and clings tighter to John, so grateful for him, so happy and overwhelmed. He's okay, John's come sticky between them and them plastered against each other and him still inside of John, and it's okay. John being there makes it all okay. “Everything...” He whispers, cautiously lifting his head to look at John, though unable to meet his eyes. “You're... you're everything. I- I didn't realize I couldn't... without you...”

John hushes him again, gently manoeuvring them both onto their sides, facing each other. “You don't have to. I'll always be here. Were you worried about that? Me going away?”

Sherlock nods, too embarrassed to agree verbally.

“No, Sherlock... I wouldn't be able to cope. I really wouldn't, you're everything to me too. Everything good and important about me is yours.”

Sherlock scoffs, finally meeting John's eyes. “Even you must know how utterly wrong that is.”

“Hm, no it's pretty accurate.” John smiles and kisses Sherlock's forehead. “You might be a bit of an arsehole sometimes, but... God, you gave me life. I was so utterly dead, people couldn't look me in the eye for too long without wincing. I was barely eating, couldn't sleep, I had... I didn't have anything. You... You gave me something, some _one_ , to live for.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, hides away in the warmth and comforting scent of John's neck. “I... I... you know. Yes?”

John nods, pulling his body closer and tangling their legs. It's not that late, only about eight-thirty, but they're both exhausted. “I know, I... also. God, we're not very good at this.”

“Mm, we're good at the before part, though.” The detective grins, beginning to mouth soft kisses over John's neck. “The whole, uh, _mine_ business. You don't have to... It's a wolf thing, traditionally we would choose a mate, mark them on their skin and through copulation, and then each would belong to the other. No other wolves will approach them, it's... I know what you said but you're in no way obligated-”

John cuts him off with a short bark of laughter, tugging him up for a kiss. “I meant it, you nutter. I want that, to be yours. I think I already was, anyway. This is just a formality... We ought to get ourselves cleaned up, though.”

A quiet growl rumbled through Sherlock's chest before he could help it. “Sorry, it's just... Must we? I like that I'm... well, my come is still inside you, and you're all over me and-”

John sighed and shook his head. “Fine. I've dealt with worse in the mornings. Besides, I kind of understand what you mean. Waking up to it might be... nice.”

Sherlock smiles softly, kissing John swiftly again before returning to the comforting crook of his neck. “You're tired.” He points out, starting to trace the planes and curves of John's back with his fingers. “Sleep. We have to go the Yard tomorrow, Lestrade's going to call about the latest murder series at around eleven tonight. I won't bother answering, he knows I'll come.”

John smiles and nods, closing his eyes and drifting, falling asleep in a matter of minutes. Sherlock, who even at his most tired is never one to sleep, kept a sort of vigil until midnight when he too succumbed to sleep's call. He'd heard his phone chirp at eleven, precisely as he'd predicted, but he had something far more interesting and beautiful to look at, John so interesting even in sleep. Everything about him was perfect, the half-open mouth with just a bit of drool, the slight whistle of his nose, the way his eyes twitched behind his lids. Sherlock couldn't believe he'd found somebody so wonderful. Even in sleep he clutched tightly to John, keeping his mate close and safe. Perfection wasn't found in people, Sherlock knew, but he thought that with John he'd come pretty damn close. Perfect for him, certainly. He slept longer than he usually did, curled around John the whole night. When he awoke, he watched and watched John until he woke up too, pressing a morning kiss to his lips and smiling. John, though tired and bleary-eyed, smiled back, looking like he was right where he belonged.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So that happened  
> Yay?
> 
> Inspired (somewhat loosely) by Man vs. Beast by Jupiter_Ash


End file.
